


Time of Dying

by lostinanotherworld24



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt No Comfort, Not A Happy Ending, POV Second Person, Team as Family, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinanotherworld24/pseuds/lostinanotherworld24
Summary: You're 30 years old, and this is how it ends.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sailormade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailormade/gifts).



> Warnings for graphic descriptions/depictions of terminal illness and death. If this bothers you, please do not continue on. 
> 
> Title taken from "Time of Dying" by Three Days Grace. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please do not forget to drop a review!

For a minute after, there is total silence. The doctor’s words hang between you, and all you can do is stare numbly at him. You are 30 years old, and this isn’t how your life is supposed to play out.

“W-What are my options?” You ask, hands shaking in your lap. He glances up at you, and there’s a glint of sadness in his eyes that raises distant sirens.

“I’m sorry, Clay. It’s progressed too far and is in the end stages. There’s nothing we can do.”

If the news initially was a grenade, then this little announcement is an IED. You feel like you’ve just been hit by one- dizzy, unsteady, the world distorted. 

“There’s gotta be something!”

“Anything we do now will only slow cancer, not cure it. You’ll be in undue agony, needless pain, and suffering. At most, I can only estimate a few extra months. Six, instead of three.”

Three months. You lived for 30 years, fought for 12 of them to become a Navy SEAL, and what it all boils down to is three months. Three fucking measly months. 90 days. 

The kicker is, what’s gonna take you out isn’t even an HVT, or a tango, or a bullet or a bomb. No, it’s your cells staging a rebellion against you that’ll do you in. Ain’t that some irony.

Numbly, you thank the doctor, accept the papers he hands you, grab your jacket and leave. For a minute after you get in your car, there’s another moment of complete and total silence. You palm the steering wheel, feel the smooth leather, and realize that in four months it’ll probably be sitting on some auction block, waiting for its next owner.

That thought crumples your resolve; you break down in sobs.

Xxx 

You decide to not tell the guys, to not tell anyone. The last thing you want is the remaining three months tainted with memories of your illness. Sure, they’ll be plenty angry after you’re gone, but in time that will fade, leaving only good memories. 

Everything becomes more precious suddenly. Briefings sound sweeter, HAHO jumps are more exciting, and the countries you visit are more interesting. There’s an acute awareness over everything that you might not do these things again, so better enjoy them while you can.

There’s also the logistical things to take care of, preparations to make for after you’re gone. You visit a lawyer and draw up a will and testament. You cash out your stocks and bonds and pay off your apartment for what’s left on your lease. There are letters to be written to the guys, explaining that you’re sorry for not telling them, you’re proud to have known them, and that you love them, always.

This last task proves to be the most painful. How do you condense nearly three years of knowing somebody into a single sheet? How do you explain that you survived bombings and gunshots and terrorists, only to be felled by something as benign as cancer? How do you say that you never wanted to die at thirty, but yet it’s happening anyway? 

Time ticks down faster and faster until you’ve only got a month left. The doctors are sure that their estimates are correct, and you agree with their timeline. You’re starting to feel weaker, unable to do as much as before. Most days it’s hard to catch your breath, and you’re so intensely fatigued you could spend days sleeping and it wouldn’t be enough. It’s happening, and the best thing to do is accept it with your chin held high.

You debate with yourself for hours, before finally coming to a decision. When it is exactly a month, you go and see Blackburn, and explain what’s happening. You file for early retirement because you’ve never been the weak link before and you refuse to start now.

Eric’s eyes are wide with shock, so rounded they’re nearly dinner plates. He leans forward, and rubs at his forehead, biting his lip. Softly he cusses, before leaning back.

“Do they know?”

“No.”

He nods and glances away.

“I won’t say that this isn’t a goddamn shame, because it is. I want you to know that I am damn proud to have been your commanding officer for three years and that a finer man I never knew.”

Such an honest admission from someone usually so stoic causes you to tear up, and you nod and bow your head. You don’t want to cry and don’t want him to see you cry. That’s not what his last memory of you should be.

Xxx

You call a meeting, have the guys meet you in the cages. They stand in a half-circle around you, and you nearly lose your nerve. The words stick on your tongue, and you’d rather be anywhere than here.

“I’m taking early retirement,” you announce. “Things have drastically changed in the past couple of months, and I can’t be a SEAL anymore. It’s no longer safe or good to have me on Bravo, so I’m bowing out now.”

Jason’s eyes have gone dark with anger, and you don’t blame him. This is handicapping Bravo, at least until they find someone new. You meet his gaze steadily anyways.

“What the fuck are you talking about, early retirement?” Sonny spits out. You glance at him, and can’t help the hint of sadness in the smile you give him. You’ll miss him the most, you think. 

“I’m sorry buddy. But when it’s time, it’s time.”

“Explain exactly what ‘things have changed drastically,’ Jason orders, crossing his arms. You wince a little because now he is Master Chief Hayes expecting to be obeyed. You shake your head.

“I’m sorry Jace, I can’t tell you. But just know that this wasn’t what I wanted.”

You drive home from the meeting into a golden sunset, tears streaming down your face the whole way.

Xxxx

It’s 15 days left. You’re too weak to do much of anything now except hang around your apartment. The doctors have made noise about wanting you in the hospital, but you stubbornly refuse to die smothered by the smell of antiseptic. There’s nothing they can do for you anyways.

A nurse has been coming by to help you as your ability to do things decreases. She’s young and cute, and both of you engage in some half-hearted flirting. In another life, you might have asked her out, and a sharp pain lances your heart when you abruptly realize you’ll never get married. You always thought you would, but that’s just another dream that’s lost to the wind. 

Unexpectedly, there’s a sharp knock at your door, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then the door is roughly shoved open. The guys pour into your apartment, all wearing airs of aggressive anger. 

“What the fuck, you asshole! You were just planning to not fucking tell us! That is the dumbest fucking thing I ever heard!” Sonny explodes, marching over to where you’re sitting on the couch and planting himself in front of you.

Startled, you only blink at him like an idiot. Ray comes over and gently lays a hand on Sonny’s arm.

“Blackburn told us, brother. About the real reason why you took early retirement.”

A world of hurt and heartbreaking sadness lay beneath his words, sympathy shining in his dark eyes. Tears collect in your eyes, and you glance away.

“Why didn’t you just tell us, Clay?” Jason asks.

You shake your head.

“Because telling you makes it real.”

Horrifyingly your voice crumbles and you finally break down into sobs. It’s been coming ever since you found out; now reality is finally setting in. You’re 30 years old and dying.

You sob. After all, you’re dying slowly, your life is ending and all you can do is watch it drain away. You sob because there are so many things you did, and so many things you never got to do. Because you’re leaving them, and you never wanted it to happen like this.

They crowd around you, murmuring words of comfort. Gently, someone tugs you into their arms, and you end up gasping for air against their shoulder. Another hand rubs your back, while a third caresses your leg. You lay there for what feels like hours.

Finally, the tears subside, and you sit up. They’re all crying too, tears openly sliding down their cheeks.

“How long? Blackburn just said it wasn’t long,” Brock asks. You meet his eyes unflinchingly.

“15 days.”

“Blackburn gave us the time off so that we could be here with you,” Jason reveals. You nod and swipe at your now burning eyes. 

“Y’all don’t gotta stay here with me, it’s okay.”

“Kid,” Sonny says. “Wild horses couldn’t drag us away right now.”

They murmur agreement, and you acquiesce. Having them around might help in some way, and you don’t have the strength to be a martyr. Not anymore, not when you’ve already sacrificed so much, only to lose it all in the end anyway. 

Xxxx

It’s 5 days now, and Naima brings the kids by. There was some debate as to whether or not they should be exposed to you like this, but in the end, it was decided it would be less traumatizing for them to get a chance to say goodbye. Of course, they don’t know it's goodbye, only that Uncle Clay is very sick right now.

The guys help you outside, to the little grassy area behind your apartment. Jameelah and RJ bask in the summer sunshine and take full advantage of it by playing tag, drawing with chalk, and blowing bubbles. There’s a childhood innocence that you can’t help but smile at. This is a world untouched by things like terminal illness and cancer, and you want to stay here for as long as possible.

You hug them both extra-tightly as they leave, mustering up every bit of strength. They hug you back, and then dart out the door, practically bouncing in place in the hallway. Naima’s eyes are glistening with tears as she embraces you, and you can’t help but feel a little weepy too.

“Take care of him, please,” you whisper. “Thank you for everything.”

She nods and shepherds the kids away, glancing back for one last look at you. You lean your forehead on the door and breathe deeply.

Xxx 

It’s the final three days, and everyone’s feeling it. The guys had been taking care of you in shifts, but now everyone hunkers down. You’re pretty much confined to bed, the trip outside zapping your energy. It was worth it though, so you don’t regret a damn thing. 

The guys start sitting with you individually, reading chapters out of your favorite books. You doze most of the time, sleeping to the sound of the familiar voices. The doctors insisted you be on morphine now, to help deal with some of the increasing pain.

You wake and Sonny’s there, idly flipping through the channels on the TV. He glances at you as soon as you open your eyes.

“Finally, Tinkerbell. Was starting to get bored with only Sportscenter for company.”

You half-heartedly smile, and quietly say his name. This needs to be done, and it’s been a long time coming. He shakes his head because he knows what’s about to happen.

“Don’t even think about it!”

“Sonny. Please.”

He steals one last look before capitulating.

“I just want you to know that I love you. You were the best friend a guy could ask for, and I couldn’t have wanted anything more. Thank you for everything. I don’t have any regrets.”

He’s crying now too, fat tears escaping his eyes. He leans forward and presses his face into his hands, shoulders shaking with the force of his cries. You rest one hand on his back, softly rubbing in slow circles. He shakes his head and glances towards the door.

“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

You go to answer, but it’s lost as you doze off again.

Xxxx

It’s the final day, but you’re not aware of most of it. 

You do know the guys all crowd together in your bedroom, each laying a hand on you somewhere. There’s the distant sound of talking, even farther back the TV playing, but not much else reaches you. You’d be more bothered by it if you could line your thoughts up in some sort of order.

Words break through the haze periodically, whispered memories of past missions and silly pranks. Sonny tells you about how he wouldn’t have wanted anyone else with him while in the tube, while Jason assures you he never regretted drafting you. Ray thanks you for all the hours of free babysitting, while Brock allows Cerberus to tell of their thanks by licking your arm. Trent informs you that he never served with anyone better. You think a faint smile crosses your face.

Eric, Lisa, and Mandy come visit too. Their words are lost to the haze, but you can still feel the gentle brush of their hands against your face, the warmth of the kiss Lisa presses to your forehead. You think you’d cry if you were aware enough to do so.

Finally, the time comes. You can feel it in your bones and are given one last bit of strength to open your eyes. They’re all standing there, your family, with tears rolling down their faces. You smile at them and say one final sentence.

“Time to shine. Hooyah.”

With that, you step out of your body, pausing for a moment to survey the scene. Your eyes are open still and rolled up towards the ceiling, but eerily blank. A final breath exhales from your still lips, and there’s not a following inhale. The nurse enters the room, and places two fingers on your neck, sighing mournfully. 

You turn then and walk through the golden doorway that has appeared. You’re suddenly sure of the fact that everything will be okay, that everything is as it was meant to be. The pain, confusion, and weakness that plagued you are no more, and you’re free to step into eternity. You take a deep breath, and never look back. 


	2. I'm Falling (To Pieces)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warnings for last chapter apply doubly so for this one. Do not read if graphic descriptions/depictions of terminal illness and death bother you. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please do not forget to review! 
> 
> *he's a tough kid and can take care of himself borrowed from "Fear In a Handful of Dust" by burn_me_down

You don’t know how to do this. 

That’s not a feeling you’re accustomed to as a frogman, the Navy makes damn sure of that. You know how to do so many things, like kill with a paperclip and shoot from miles away and incapacitate a grown man in the time it takes him to blink. You know how to shove away pain and fear, how to continue the mission even when a brother ( _a brother you loved_ ) is lying blown to bits feet from where you stand.

But this, this is something completely outside your wheelhouse.

You noticed that he was getting slower, that it was harder for him to catch his breath. Selfishly, you shoved away worry because _he’s a tough kid_ and _he can take care of himself_ and _you’re not his mother, dammit_. You didn’t want to admit, even to yourself, that it brought a small bit of satisfaction to see him knocked down a peg, to see him experience what it was to be mortal. Beyond that, you’re tired of cleaning up everyone’s messes, tired of being the one to pick up the pieces. It’s not your job to walk behind with a broom and dustpan, not your assigned role to put the puzzle together when no one else will.

And this is where it’s led you.

He’s lying in bed, gasping for breath. His chest puffs out the slightest amount before it depresses even less so. There’s a rattling in his chest that makes you sick because you know it means the end is near. The years you’d thought you had suddenly wound down to days when you weren’t looking, and this is how it ends. 

You don’t know how to simultaneously watch your kids play with him in the summer sunshine and carry the knowledge they won’t see him again. You don’t know how to answer their questions of _why is Uncle Clay so skinny_ , and _why do you look so sad, Daddy_. You don’t know how to explain that it’s so fucking unfair that he survived as much as he had, only to be taken out in a place where he’s supposed to be safe.

It doesn’t feel like enough to sit by his bedside and read until your mouth is devoid of moisture and your voice cracks. It feels like the bare fucking minimum to keep pumping him full of morphine so that he’s not in any pain. You know also that there’s nothing more you can do, that sometimes it’s about keeping someone comfortable until they’re swept away on the wind, rather than trying to save their life.

Finally, the day and the hour has come. You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the people who walk through hell and live to tell the tale and murmur soft nothings until you’re hoarse. Trent said he wouldn’t be aware of much, but having the noise is better than nothing.

He opens his eyes one last time and says goodbye in the only way you’ll ever know how.

And then he’s gone.

XXXX

Later, you know what to do.

You know how to sit through a funeral ( _another one, in an endless parade of them_ ), and listen as the preacher gives out platitudes like they’re candy. You know how to lift the coffin, how to adjust under its weight so you don’t collapse. You know how to march forward, to force yourself away so you don’t think about who you’re carrying and what that means.   
You know how to watch it get lowered in the ground, how to toss a rose on top. You know how to go home, and sit in the darkness of your bedroom and weep, weep for another brother whose face will only ever be a memory. 

You know to expect a phone call at three am, how to get dressed in the dark without waking your wife. You know what bar to go to, and you know how to wrangle Sonny Quinn into your car, and then your home and your couch. You know how to ignore the tears streaming down his face, how to discount anything he says now because he’ll deny it in the morning. 

Unexpectedly, you’re hit with another blow.

You’ve been living life on autopilot, getting through each day with a veneer of normality. It’s tenuous and can’t last forever, but you don’t have much else. Until the knock at the door.

A well-dressed man stands on your porch, a briefcase in hand. He introduces himself and you invite him inside, and he begins to lay out his business. And that’s when you hit the snag.

Because you don’t know what to do with the news of being appointed an executor of an estate, and you especially don’t know what to do with the information that he wants his beloved car sold and the proceeds put in a trust for your children.   
You think back to that last day of sunshine, the way he looked happy even though you knew he was so fucking heartbroken. Even though you knew the things he’d never admit, like the fact he was furious about dying and a little bit scared at the same time, how painful it was to watch his body wither away and all his dreams pass away too.

You collapse then, lose every bit of strength you’d been grasping onto. You fall to pieces because this is more than you can handle because death might be painful but it should be quick. 

( _It never ends, it resonates in the months and years afterward and you never wanted to witness the slow decay of your soul_.)  


Because there’s been so many lost and so many more you’ll lose, and you don’t know how to accept that. 

You cry because you're exhausted. You want the rest that you constantly chase but can never obtain, you want to be the one leaving instead of always getting left. You’re so done with dress blues and gray tombstones and mahogany coffins, sick enough you could vomit. The nightmares never leave you and neither do the memories, and you can’t take it. 

You're falling to pieces, and there's not enough glue in the world to put you back together.   
( _Maybe some people are destined to shatter.)_


End file.
